


House of Atreus

by Miss_Nearly



Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Decided I want to finish it somehow, Gen, Greek Mythology - Freeform, John Constantine is bi pass it on, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow To Update, TVTropes as source for some canon, Wrote first chapter two years ago, Zed's terrible childhood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 06:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12647976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Nearly/pseuds/Miss_Nearly
Summary: (Definitely a WIP)When one of Zed's visions brings Constantine to Chicago, he and his team find themselves ankle-deep in an ancient curse and mob politics. Meanwhile, Zed has to come to terms with her past as she dodges the attention of her father--and his doomsday cult.





	House of Atreus

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was going across some old things I wrote when I stumbled on this, the first chapter of what was to be a rather ambitious project. I'm probably going to cut that ambition to only a few chapters, but I thought that what I had was of sufficient quality to share--it's definitely better than anything I've written in a while.
> 
> I'll try to update every two weeks or so, but my schedule is kind of a mess right now, so who knows? Rating and warnings subject to change.
> 
> Full disclosure: I've only read the first four volumes of Hellblazer, so Epiphany Greaves is going to be pretty much reinvented from the ground up. She's still a talented alchemist, though!
> 
> Thanks for taking a chance on this! I hope it doesn't disappoint!
> 
> See end notes for chapter warnings

Zed loves makeup. Specifically, she loves eyeliner. She loves it in various shades of browns and blacks and blues, in pencils and liquids and creams, swept along her lash lines at varying thicknesses and in a variety of shapes. She knows that it’s a foolish passion when she rarely has money to spare, but she wears it proudly all the same. It’s silly, and it’s spiteful, but catching a glance of herself in the mirror when she has gobs of the stuff smeared artfully under her eyes carries her triumphantly back to her childhood. It feels like holding a giant finger up to her father, his cronies, and, most importantly, pure, good Mary Martin, who was destined for greatness, who was far above the promiscuous girls who rimmed their eyes with black and lost their virginities to their eager boyfriends at sixteen. So, Zed loves eyeliner.

That’s why she’s got one hand cradling a dusky brown kohl pencil, the other gently tugging down her lash line, both eyes upward and patient reflected back in the little mirror propped against the wall in her room in the old mill when everything goes fuzzy. Dimly, she’s aware of her body abandoning its project and reaching for blank paper and her charcoals, but, more importantly, a cityscape comes into being and shoves aside the faded floral wallpaper of her room with the first squalling breaths of its new-formed lungs.

She recognizes it, from crumbling brick buildings that served as boarding houses and a vague but assertive feeling of rightness that shouts through the cool night air. This is Chicago, and as soon as Zed affirms it, a wild figure careens into view and disturbs any chance for reflection.

At first, it’s a shadowy form only recognizable as human by its general shape and the sound of labored breathing that somehow carries down the block, but it quickly passes under a streetlight, and Zed sees a young woman. She’s very young and completely naked, and a curtain of ink-black curls that dance around her head and partially obscure her face do nothing to conceal flawless olive-colored skin that stretches over a lithe, compact body. Small, round breasts bounce (probably painfully, Zed realizes with a sympathetic wince) in time with her steps—evidently, one of her feet is bleeding because she leaves behind a dark trail of footprints on the uneven terrain of the sidewalk.

In a few seconds' time, the figure has closed the distance between them, and in the moment she passes Zed, she turns her head enough to dart a glance over her shoulder, giving Zed a perfect glimpse of her eyes. The sheer pain and terror they hold makes Zed want to take off with her.

That moment of panic brings the vision to an abrupt end. Chicago snaps closed like the cover of a book while Zed goes sprawling next to the charcoal sketch her body has made without her. She takes a moment of deep breathing to compose herself before she sits up, wanting to wait longer because a pair of red-rimmed hazel eyes, one betraying the tell-tale scarlet splotch of a broken blood vessel, intrude on her thoughts with aggressive frequency. 

But rouse herself Zed does, and she snatches up her drawing pad, casting one last regretful glance at her half-finished make-up in the mirror before she rushes out the door and down the corridor to the common room, where John has (predictably) fallen asleep over an old tome and a half-empty bottle and where Chas (predictably) tiptoes around him, returning things to their places without disturbing him.

The thudding footsteps of Zed’s unceremonious entrance wakes John with a violent start. As he bolts upward, his hand bumps the bottle. Only Chas’s quick reflexes prevent it from emptying its contents over the entire desk.

“Whadd’ya do that for?” asks John, whose voice is husky from tobacco smoke and whose wit is likely fast asleep. He rubs his eyes, and apparently remembers how to talk. “Wake me up, I mean.”

Chas is more perceptive. His eyes dart from Zed’s partially made-up face to the drawing pad she clutched high up her side. “You had a vision.”

At the word “vision,” the exhaustion vanishes from John’s body language. He sits up and leans forward. “And a good morning to you, Zed! Any leads on this darkness problem of ours?”

Zed draws nearer to them. “There’s a woman in trouble in Chicago.”

John’s shoulders slump. “Well that’s no bloody help, is it? There’s always a woman in trouble somewhere. It’s never going to help us with you-fucking-well-know-who.” John never invoked the Brujeria by name. A dangerous thing in the wrong hands, a name, he had told Zed when she asked why.

Ignoring John’s bitterness, Zed places her drawing on the table in front of him. He examines it as Chas cranes his neck to see it. John releases a low, appreciative whistle, and that despite the fact that (thankfully) in the picture the young woman is fully clothed in a pea coat and slacks.

“She’s something to look at,” he says.

Chas gives it a moment before he responds, “Her eyes, John.”

“I see them.”

Under different circumstances, Zed would be proud that she managed to capture such intense emotion as the fear she drew under the trance. As it is, she feels only a vague, choking fear of her own.

John examines the drawing for a few heartbeats more. “Did you see what was chasing her?”

“No,” says Zed. “There wasn’t anything.”

“There had to be something. She couldn’t be this terrified otherwise.” John stands up and stretches casually. “Best pack for a few days. No idea how long we’ll be there.”

The fear takes palpable form inside Zed and squeezes her heart. 

“I can’t go to Chicago!” she somehow chokes out over a rising pulse.

“No sense arguing,” says John. “It’s too risky leaving you behind alone with the Resurrection Crusade about, and I’ve no hope of navigating a city as large a Chicago without help.”

John is right. Bad memories can wait.

He’s reached a planning state now. His eyes are bright as he hands out orders.

“Zed, you find the nearest flight and book three tickets. Chas, you make sure we have all the supplies we need. I’m going to add to our discretionary fund.” That’s a euphemism for whatever it is that John does to produce handfuls of bills with little notice. Zed’s certain it’s something both illegal and immoral, but she never asks.

John leaps up and grabs his trench coat off the back of his chair, throwing it quickly over his rumpled white shirt. Chas sighs and makes a show of checking his pockets for the keys to the cab. He’s going to drop Zed off at the library where she can use the Wi-Fi to book the plane tickets and drop John off God-knows-where before swinging back to pick up Zed and pack. He and Zed trail behind as John zips over to the door and flings it open.

John’s halfway through the door before he turns to offer Zed a piece of unsolicited advice.

“You might want to think of fixing your makeup, you know. It looks bloody awful.”

**Author's Note:**

> CWs for chapter one: Blood, mention of mental/emotional abuse of a child/brainwashing, I guess you would call it?, slut-shaming within that context, swearing, alcohol, implied violence


End file.
